


If You Know What's Good For You

by ComplicatedLight



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Arm Wrestling, Arm-porn, Community: lewis_challenge, First Time, Gratuitous sleeve rolling, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 20:00:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6624220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComplicatedLight/pseuds/ComplicatedLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all fun and games until someone gets an erection . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Know What's Good For You

**Author's Note:**

> Little fun fic written for the Lewis Trope/Cliché 20th Celebratory Challenge.
> 
> Of the three tropes I was given, I went for _play fighting._ I think some _special skills or hidden talents_ showed up too :-)
> 
> Set around Series 4 to 5, but no spoilers.
> 
> Strong language and explicit activities, but warnings for nothing else other than the ridiculous lengths I'll go to to get these two idiots together.

They’ve been snapping at each other all day. The case has dragged on far longer than it should have, though James can’t for the life of him see how they could have made sense of the mess of half-leads and misinformation any sooner. Having Innocent pestering for an update every couple of hours has done nothing to help the mood, either. Now they’re both tired and prickly and fed up to the back teeth with adulterous, murderous accountants.

There was no way he and Lewis were ever going to trust the typewritten suicide-note-cum-murder-confession found with the second body, but it took days of tedious combing through company accounts (James’ thankless task, naturally), and Lewis hovering a hair’s breadth away from witness intimidation, to finally get a couple of the slippery bastards to start telling something like the truth. It turns out that pretty much every accountant in Oxford is shagging some other accountant’s wife or husband or business partner, and in the end, one of them had decided to express their feelings about the situation with their father’s WW2 service revolver.

Lewis has also been expressing his feelings all day; about the case, about Innocent, and about how long it took James to work his way through that last lot of accounts—which is bloody unreasonable of him. And it would have gone a lot quicker if Lewis had stopped moaning and had actually helped. No, James knows that’s not fair. It’s not like Lewis hadn’t had enough work of his own to do, and he’s never been the kind of inspector to sit around watching his sergeant do all the grunt work. And James also knows that really Lewis is more pissed off with himself than anyone else that the case took so long, and he’s just letting off steam.

And it’s not as if Lewis is the only one who’s been behaving badly. James knows he’s been needling and sniping at Lewis all day; that he’s been pedantic and snotty well past the point of rudeness, and it’s a miracle Lewis hasn’t blown up at him. The truth is, a reckless, perverse part of him has been trying to get Lewis to lose it. He can tell himself that it’s been with the intention of bringing it all to a head, to relieve the tension between them, but that’s bollocks. Pushing and pushing Lewis, winding him up tighter and tighter, has felt more like some sort of extreme sport—stupid and risky and utterly thrilling; but not something James is particularly proud of.

Once they’d actually made an arrest and the whole sorry story had come out, things between them had settled down a bit. Innocent was all smiles again and that had helped, and Lewis had started to look like his blood pressure was back in the sub-murderous range. Even so, maybe it might have been more sensible not to go back to Lewis’ for a beer tonight? It wasn’t like Lewis had actually invited him anyway; James had just followed him to his car and climbed in—though to be fair, if Lewis had had any objections, he’d chosen to keep them to himself. 

So now they’re sitting on Lewis’ sofa, drinking bottles of Belgian beer brewed by Trappist monks, for God’s sake, which apparently were a present from Lyn’s partner, and which Lewis has been saving to drink with James. Which on the face of it is a generous thing. A kind thing. Except Lewis appears to have produced them this evening for the sole purpose of justifying an endless stream of jokes about the Church and drunken monks and paralytic priests; all for James’ benefit, of course. James knows Lewis doesn’t really mean any harm, though there’s still a bit of an edge there, a little less warmth to his jokiness than usual. And it _is_ good to see Lewis laughing again, after the last few days. But James is still pretty tightly wound himself and, although he’s been trying to politely laugh along, he really isn’t in the mood for any more Father Ted inspired digs at the Catholic Church, however much truth there might be in them.

“Lucky I was there to help you apprehend Middleton, sir. Wouldn’t have wanted you to sustain an injury. Much harder to heal at your age.” 

Lewis looks puzzled for a moment as he tries to follow the sudden change of subject. When he finally catches up, he huffs out a disgruntled breath. “Are you saying I couldn’t have stopped him on me own?! Bloody cheek! I’m not that past it. I think I could just about manage to stop a middle-aged accountant from doing a runner.” He looks like he’s right on the border between amused and pissed-off, and something hot and alive and adrenalin-laced shoots through James. The urge to poke the bear with the stick again is irresistible. 

“I’m just saying maybe you should leave the more physical aspects of policing to your younger colleagues, these days.” 

Lewis sits up straight and turns to face James full on. “I’ve still got a few tricks up me sleeve. I could sort out someone half me age if I needed to.” There’s still a bit of amusement round his eyes, but the set of his mouth and his tone of voice are all _I really wouldn’t push it, if you know what’s good for you._

James pushes it. “If you say so, sir.” The expression on his face gives new meaning to the word insincere. 

“I do bloody well say so.” Lewis looks James up and down. “Think you could have a go, do you? I’d be careful if I were you, Sergeant. I'm really not as past it as you seem to think." 

James just looks at him blandly and Lewis glowers back and then leans over the side of the sofa and puts his beer out of the way. “Right. Come on then, if you think you’re up to it.”

 _Christ, he can’t seriously be suggesting they fight?_ “I wouldn’t want to hurt you, sir.” 

Lewis snorts. "Don't you worry about me, Sunshine. Come on." 

“Come on, what?”

Lewis flashes him a wolfish grin. “We’re going to arm wrestle.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“If you’re too chicken, James, just say.” Lewis pushes the coffee table right back and shoves all the papers off it onto the floor. “Up to you.” 

And there’s something about Lewis’ sudden cockiness, the smug little look on his face as he sits there waiting for James to respond, that get’s right up James’ nose. “Fine. You’re on.”

Lewis chuckles. “If you’re sure, James. Don’t feel you have to prove anything to me.”

“Let’s just get on with it, shall we?”

“Fair enough. Don’t say I didn’t warn you though.” Lewis slides down onto his knees by the side of the coffee table, and carefully takes his watch off and puts it in his pocket. James kneels down too, facing him. Lewis undoes the button on one of his shirt sleeves and carefully rolls the sleeve up, revealing a tanned, muscular arm. He does it—fold after tight fold of the fabric—with the slow, deliberate air of someone seriously preparing for a fight. It’s ridiculous, but he’s actually managing to make the act of rolling his sleeves up, menacing. 

“Get yours rolled up, then. I’m not getting scratched by those buttons.”

So James rolls his sleeves up too, though he’s pretty sure he doesn’t manage to do it with anything like the same air of intimidation.

“You don’t have to do this, sir.”

“By all means back out if you feel the need, Sergeant. I won’t judge you.”

 _You’d never let me live it down!_ “Not at all. I just wanted to spare you the humiliation of being beaten by a subordinate officer.”

“Ha. Right.” Lewis shakes his head. “Let’s get on with it.”

Lewis firmly plants his elbow on the coffee table and flexes his hand. James does the same, and Lewis grips James’ hand tightly. They stare at each other.

“Right James; after three. One. Two. Three!” 

Instantly Lewis flexes his arm and James loses six inches of ground. _Fucking. Hell._ James digs in and pushes back, and with a humiliating amount of effort manages to regain an inch or two, but he can’t get their arms back upright again. He drives his feet into the carpet and pushes until his thigh muscles are rigid, but he can’t shift Lewis any further.

Two minutes later James’ arm is shaking and hurting and it’s embarrassingly clear that he’s never going to manage to beat Lewis like this. It’s outrageous; the bloke’s a good twenty years older than him, he’s smaller than him, and less active, and he should not be kneeling there, grinning at him like a smug, Geordie version of the Cheshire bloody cat.

Their hands are hot and sweaty and their bare arms keep sliding against each other, but that’s the only movement happening. Lewis is obviously finding it tough going too—he’s breathing hard and there’s beads of sweat in his hairline. But it’s like he’s made of rock—he’s just not shifting an inch. So if James is going to win this, and put them both out of their misery, he’s going to have to be clever. It’s a risk, but if he doesn’t do something different, he’s either going to have to spend the rest of the night fighting a battle it’s clear he can’t actually win, or he’s going to have to concede defeat—and that’s absolutely not an option he’s willing to entertain. 

Most of the time, they get on well. They look out for each other. He would say they’re close, in a way—if you can be close to someone without ever talking to them about anything personal, without really knowing much that’s personal about them. He appreciates Lewis’ dry sense of humour, his understated intelligence. He respects him as a detective. But none of that is going to stop James using every ounce of strength and cunning he has at his disposal to wipe that smug grin off Lewis’ face. He glares at Lewis, drags air in through his nostrils as if preparing for an epic push, but then makes himself go limp, trying to create just a second of surprise so he can turn the tables.

It was always going to be a risky strategy. In the event, Lewis roars and surges forward and slams James’ hand against the coffee table before James even has time to begin his assault. His resistance is so minimal that Lewis crashes into him and James falls backwards, ending up flat on his back with Lewis on top of him, heavy and hot and still pushing hard. James grabs the back of Lewis’ belt and grunting with the effort, tries to flip them over.

“Are we not done here, James?!” Lewis is panting in his ear. “I wouldn’t want you to do yourself a mischief.” He sounds infuriatingly pleased with himself.

“No we’re not bloody done!” James bends his leg and gets his foot flat on the ground. He pushes up and manages to lift Lewis and tries to roll him. “Just lulling you—” James heaves up against Lewis’ warm, solid body, “—into a false sense of security.” This statement might be more convincing if he wasn’t sprawled and panting under Lewis, who snakes his leg round James’ and pulls it out from under him, so he’s back to square one. _For fuck’s sake!_ Then with a grunt, Lewis presses his body heavily down onto James, pinning him, chest, belly and groin.

 _Groin._ One moment, James can tell himself they’re just two colleagues having a bit of unruly fun; letting off steam after a crap day. Not that him and Lewis have ever done anything even approaching this before. They don’t exactly have a history of boisterousness; of fucking wrestling on Lewis’ living room floor on a Friday night. _Jesus_. But the point is there was a moment where he could have argued to himself that that’s what it was—out of character unruliness to deal with the tensions and petty complaints that have built up between them during a shitty case. But then the next moment . . . the next moment, it’s like suddenly everything comes into focus; he’s got his eyes tight shut and the only thing he’s aware of is how wide his legs are spread to accommodate Lewis between them . . . and how fucking good it feels. And it’s probably the worst idea in the world, but he surges up again, this time with his hips, rocking up against Lewis. And his cock’s filling, as Lewis will no doubt be aware any fucking second now, if he hasn’t already noticed, so it’s a complete fucking disaster—

Above him, Lewis goes absolutely still: he doesn’t move, he doesn’t breathe. He just lies heavily on top of James. Thinking? Panicking? Trying to work out how the hell he’s going to extricate himself from this fiasco? But then Lewis rocks against him. It’s strangely slow, almost experimental; like he’s testing something, trying something out. But it’s there. It happened.

James has also stopped breathing. The fallout from this, the mess it’ll make of their working relationship, of their friendship, doesn’t bear thinking about, and he should stop it right now, while there’s still a chance the situation is retrievable. He tilts up a couple of inches, offering Lewis his erection to rock against. He waits to see what’ll happen, while his heart hammers so fast and loud, it feels like it’s trying to pound its way through his ribcage. He wonders if this is how astronauts feel in the last few seconds of the countdown—hearts pounding while they wait to see if their rocket will fling them into the heavens, or explode, disastrously, on the launch pad.

Lewis presses against him again, a little less tentatively this time. So James pushes up again, and Lewis finally, finally, hisses out a breath and rubs himself firmly against James, and _oh Christ,_ Lewis is—well, not fully hard as far as James can tell, but there’s definitely something going on there. And Lewis keeps grinding down against James’ erection, and it’s fantastic, really fantastic; so fantastic that without thinking James turns his head and kisses the side of Lewis’ face.

And although he did it automatically, and he can’t regret it because he can’t think of anything he wants to do right now other than kiss Lewis, that one little kiss somehow is far more intimate than all the wrestling and rutting they might get up to—and he’s got no idea how Lewis is going to react.

Lewis murmurs _God, James_ and rolls them so they’re on their sides, facing each other. James opens his eyes. Lewis is breathing heavily and his cheeks are flushed red, and he’s staring at James. “You kissed me.” He looks as stunned as James feels.

“Yes.”

Lewis nods but says nothing, his expression giving nothing away, and now is not the bloody time for him to pull his inscrutable DI Lewis routine.

“Is that a problem?”

There’s a pause. James can hear Lewis breathing. “I don’t think so, no.”

“You don’t sound sure.”

Lewis looks at him carefully. “It’s more that I’m a bit gobsmacked how little of a problem you kissing me is.”

James is usually all for a bit of ambiguity and the freedom afforded by the unexpressed word, but there are times when even he can see the need for absolute clarity. “You mean you liked it?”

Lewis still looks dazed, but he smiles. “I mean I liked it.”

 _Praise all the saints._ “So if I were to do it again . . ?”

Lewis reaches out a hand and strokes his thumb against the side of James’ face. “Yes; I think so.”

Yes.

James kisses Lewis’ palm, which is warm and salty. He kisses the inside of Lewis’ wrist, and imagines he can feel Lewis’ pulse beneath his tongue. He props himself up a little and takes hold of Lewis’ arm, which is a thing of beauty: brownish after a summer of sleeves rolled up, and corded with muscle. James trails his fingertips along the muscle and glances up to find Lewis watching him with dark, hooded eyes. 

“I shouldn’t like this arm, you know. Not really; not after what it put me through.”

The corner of Lewis’ mouth twitches. “But?”

“Well, I’m not sure if I should kiss it—“ James rubs his lips softly over the paler, smoother skin on the inside of the arm, “or do something rather less friendly—“ and without really even knowing he’s going to do it, he nips sharply at the tender skin with his teeth. Lewis says “Oi!” and sounds scandalised, so James does it again, and Lewis mutters “Give over.” But when James looks up at him, Lewis is watching him, astonished and wanting, and he takes James’ head in his hands and kisses him and kisses him. He kisses like a storm; like thunder; like electricity. They roll on the floor, wrapped round each other, and Lewis kisses him and kisses him, until James has to pull his mouth away, just to get a breath in.

He pants against Lewis’ face, “Oh, Christ.” 

Lewis is panting too, his chest heaving against James’. “Okay?” Lewis sounds wrecked, like kissing James has broken him open, and all the want and need is pouring out of him. And Lewis smells of heat and sweat and sex, and it’s safety and danger and joy all at the same time. It’s Lewis; somehow it's always been Lewis. How could James have not known; not known that all this time they should have been doing this? How can a kiss, just a kiss, have made sense of who they are? 

He pushes his hand down between them, over the soft wool of Lewis’ trousers. He rubs his knuckles against Lewis’ erection and Lewis moans into his neck; and that sound, that fucking broken, needy sound—there is nothing he wouldn’t do to keep Lewis making that sound: that’s his life mapped out, right there. He massages Lewis’ cock through the slippery fabric and Lewis hisses out a breath. “James! I’m not going to last a minute if you keep doing that.” He gasps as James squeezes. “It’s been a long time.”

James feels the stab of pain directly behind his ribs—the pain of knowing how long it’s been for this beautiful man, of realising how much Lewis has needed and how much he’s hidden, of realising how alive Lewis could have been in his arms, all this time. James kisses him. “Well, I think we should make it a minute that’ll take days to recover from then, shouldn’t we?” And he undoes Lewis’ belt and trousers and manages to push his boxers down a bit. It’s been a long time for him too, a long time since he had another man’s cock in his hand, and his heart staggers as his fingers slide round the velvety head. God Almighty, Lewis’ cock is beautiful. He strokes the dark foreskin back and forth over the head, and Lewis grunts with pleasure and pulls him close.

“Together, James. Got to be together.” Lewis reaches down to where James’ own erection is rigid and aching in his trousers, and squeezes firmly, and it's a miracle James doesn’t come right then.

He gets himself out, as Lewis watches, and they push themselves tight together and kiss and rock against each other. Then Lewis spits on the palm of his hand and wraps it round both their cocks, and that’s it—it’s irresistible; James’ orgasm builds and builds, like a hurricane swirling and spinning out at sea, surging towards land. James puts his hand round Lewis' and Lewis shouts and goes rigid and the feel of him pulsing over their hands makes James come so hard, he’s just white noise and electric shock. 

* * *

 

They lie tangled together, panting and dazed, but eventually, their breathing settles down. Lewis fishes his handkerchief out of his pocket and they clean themselves up as best they can. They can’t stop looking at each other.

“All right?” Lewis looks sleepy; lovable. He’s lying on his side, head resting on his arm. James is lying facing him.

“Good, yes.” James nods. “And you?”

“How could I not be? Though the next time we do something like that, I wouldn’t mind being somewhere a bit more comfy. Bed would be nice.” They smile at each other and smile at each other until the only thing possible is for James to shuffle over and be wrapped in Lewis’ arms.

He strokes up Lewis’ arm and over his shoulder, letting his hand come to rest against Lewis’ upper back. “Not that I’m complaining about the outcome, but where did you learn to arm wrestle like that?!”

“Are we using arm wrestle as a euphemism, James?”

“No we aren’t! I really mean the arm wrestling. You can’t tell me you haven’t done that before.”

“Well, I might have had a go, once or twice. A long time ago, mind.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

Lewis runs his fingers through James’ hair. “Newcastle coppers’ arm wrestling pub league.”

“There was an arm wrestling league? Of course there bloody was.”

Lewis chuckles. “What?! You’re telling me you’ve never been in an arm wrestling league?!”

“No, of course I haven’t! I used to compete in chess tournaments.”

“That’s my James.”

James finds he has to kiss the insufferable git. 

“So; you used to arm wrestle. And you what, won one or two matches, I suppose?”

There’s a pause. “When me and Val moved down south, I retired from the league—unbeaten champion.”

 _You bastard!_ “And you didn’t think to mention this when you were challenging me to a wrestle?”

Lewis laughs. “I suppose it was a bit shifty, now you mention it.” He kisses James’ hair. “Sorry about that. It didn’t turn out too bad though, did it?” 

James snuggles into Lewis’ chest and sighs. “I suppose it didn’t.”


End file.
